Tom Aston - The Machine

‘It’s not as bad as it looks, Stone,’ said Semyonov. His voice was still strong and intelligent in between asthmatic gasps. Virginia was biting her knuckle again, weeping silently.

‘We’re coming with you,’ said Stone, after a delay. ‘The Death Hole, the crater in Sichuan. You know the place. That’s where you’re going. And since you offer, that is where we choose to go.’

‘We?’ asked Semyonov meaningfully. ‘Does that mean Carslake too?

‘Virginia’s idea. She seems to think two pairs of hands will be better than one for this little job.’ said Stone.

‘She could be right,‘ said Semyonov, ‘But more likely she wants Carslake where she can see him. She doesn’t want him posting it all over his blog the minute he leaves her sight. She likes to be in control. You probably noticed. But I’m not sure I agree with her.’

‘Tush,’ said Stone. ‘Carslake wouldn’t miss it for the world,’’

‘Sarcasm, Stone,’ said Semyonov. ‘Is beneath you.’ Stone felt the blur of the red eyes boring into him again through the translucent plastic. Semyonov made stiff, pained movements behind the sheet. ‘I guess the lady gets her way as usual,’ said Semyonov, almost resignedly. ‘But I warn you — it will be dangerous and I can’t exactly help you. And what makes you think there’s anything to see down there? Robert Oyang is an unreliable witness, let me assure you.’

‘Come on, Semyonov,’ said Stone. ‘The Chinese have done everything possible for you. Including airlifting a mobile operating theatre onto this island by the look of it. They don’t do that for nothing. There’s something very interesting down there, and we all know it. A few hours ago you wanted my help.’

‘That was Virginia.’

‘Are you sure about that? You could get a legion of Chinese to help you, but you didn’t. There’s something you want to get for yourself. You need our help, or you can’t do it. Let me and Carslake help you.’

Semyonov said nothing for a few seconds. There was a rustling of plastic as he shifted painfully around on the gurney. ‘I could be blowing smoke up their asses, too, the Chinese,’ he said groaning. ‘Like I did with you and Oyang and the rest of the world.’

‘The Chinese aren’t that gullible, Semyonov,’ said Stone. ‘And I’m sorry to break it to you, but it was Oyang who was blowing smoke up your backside. All he wanted, in all the time he was buttering you up and kissing your arse, was money.’

There was wry laughter from behind the sheeting. ‘Why can’t the Chinese go down the mine and get whatever it is themselves?’ asked Semyonov.

Testing him. Probing Stone’s knowledge. Constantly playing his intellectual games.

‘Oh, they could do that,’ said Stone. ‘But it would go wrong. They need you to do it, Semyonov. Besides they trust you. You offered them something very big, and the Machine, whatever it is, has already made a down-payment of billions of dollars worth of technology. Why would they louse that up?’

Semyonov was right — he could very well be blowing smoke up their asses too. But it hardly mattered.

‘You know why. And I know why,’ repeated Stone. ‘You asked me to help you get something out of that hole, the mine or whatever it is…’

‘And you know,’ intoned Semyonov’s wheezing voice from with the tent, ‘That you’ll have to tell me what you know about the Machine. You can’t bluff me any longer.’ A doctor or orderly had gone behind the sheeting, covered from head to toe in a plastic jumpsuit and wearing a breathing mask. Semyonov was trying to get up, lumbering around, blowing heavy asthmatic breaths, trying to swing himself from the gurney and onto his feet. ‘I’m going to get dressed for the journey,’ he said, between breaths. ‘I can assure you it’s not only inconvenient. It’s excruciating. You’ll have to tell me what you know about the Machine to distract me.’

Stone let the silence hang for a while, then when Semyonov had stopped groaning and wincing, it was his turn to tell a story. He was going to tell a dying man in an oxygen tent about the Machine.

Jean Luc Bisson, a French polo player, had found a Chinese girl. She was sassy, sexy. Spiky hair and spiky heels, skinny in black jeans and black silk camisole.

A hot breeze soughed over from the South China Sea, fluttering the advertising banners for Patek Philippe and Louis Vuitton, and tousling Jean Luc’s hair. It was the People’s Republic of China, but it could have been a humid version of Hurlingham near London, or maybe the Hamptons. Designer sun dresses and hats, flags of all nations, the smell of ponies. Most of all the turbo-charged testosterone of eight whole teams of polo players. Super-rich men, young women and lean men in tight white jeans. The atmosphere crackled with sexuality.

Three quarters of a bottle of Mumm champagne and two hours of weapons-grade flirtation with the Chinese girl had left Jean Luc thinking of only one thing. When she offered to entertain him in her apartment in Shanghai for the weekend, Jean Luc hadn’t bothered to weigh his options. He summoned a car and they drove off, to censorious glances in the mirror from the driver.

Ying Ning gave directions in Chinese, of course. They arrived at Hongqiao airport in Shanghai.

‘You must give the driver four hundred kwai,’ she told him sexily. Stroked his bicep under his pink polo shirt for good measure.

Jean Luc was confused, but gave her the money. It didn’t seem bad. About forty euros. Then watched in frustration as she stepped out.

‘Where you going?’ he asked.

‘Sichuan!’ she shouted over her shoulder and walked off into the terminal.

Stone looked through the translucent plastic sheeting of Semyonov’s “cleantent”. He could see blood from the sores around Semyonov’s legs and butt forming scarlet patches inside the white plastic trousers. He would have had a blood transfusion in the past few hours, followed by the Interferon infusion to damp down his immune system.

‘What about the Machine, Stone? Do your powers of imagination stretch that far? Or was Robert Oyang pulling your leg ,’ said Semyonov, using a Brit English phrase. Goading. ‘According to your story, when did I first go to Sichuan to seek enlightenment? Or dig the spaceship out of the ground if you believe your friend Carslake?’

‘I don’t know when you did it,’ said Stone. ‘And I don’t really know why. Maybe you did it as a gift to the human race. Maybe you did it to find a cure for your health problems. Maybe you did it just because you could. I don’t know when or how,’ said Stone. He could feel Semyonov growing in confidence behind the plastic covers, his red eyes staring, his struggling lungs laughing gently. If only his face could move, Semyonov would be laughing in Stone’s face already. Stone’s theory had better be right. ‘But I can tell you what you did,’ said Stone. ‘What you made. And why you ran away from the US and faked your death.’

‘There was nothing clever in faking my death, nothing underhand. I just wanted a little peace.’ There was quiet, but for the hum of the air receivers and the sucking half-snore of Semyonov’s asthmatic lungs. ‘Can you imagine how hard it was to do those press conferences and parties?’

Was Semyonov looking for sympathy? Stone said nothing.

‘I was also out of my mind on steroids, Professor Stone,’ Semyonov said, quietly. ‘And it nearly fucking killed me.’

Odi profanum vulgum. I hate the vulgar masses. It was a big part of Semyonov. Steroids have a very depressive effect, even to the point of inducing paranoia.